I feel slightly ridiculous, updating on random minutiae when so many people I know and love are battening down the hatches in preparation for Sandy, but here I am. Nothing I can do from here can stop a hurricane, which seems unfair, really. That’d be a good superpower to have. My superpower, instead, is WRITE ABOUT NOTHING AS A DISTRACTION. It’s not as flashy.
[Sidebar: I wrote something on Facebook this morning about how, when weighing the pros and cons of letting Chickadee move away for the year, “life-threatening hurricane” hadn’t even been on my list of concerns. As I wrote it I was wondering for the 1,000th time if I should ask my ex if he’s properly laid in supplies or if I should continue to assume he’s a capable adult and not, you know, be a worrywart jerkface even though I’m nervous. And then Tarrant commented that, “Oh geez, after the year you’ve had, you’d think you would have factored that in,” and that made me laugh so hard that I forgot to be worried for a couple of minutes. Thanks, Tarrant!]
Anyway, our weekend was SUPER exciting, I’ll have you know.
On Friday when I saw the surgeon who made me bionic, I marveled once again at how freakin’ YOUNG he appears to be he bent my hand this way and that and told me that “any pain you’re feeling now is smoke in the kitchen.” I swear, this is a direct quote. In fact, he said it several times, and it took me a while to figure out what the heck he meant. He meant that there’s nothing I can do at this point—short of a real blow to my new hardware, of course—that will actually damage anything. The advantage to getting screwed back together is that, technically, the bone is no longer broken. Or, it is, kind of, but with everything being held together, I can move however I like and it’s not going to jar the bone. Granted, I’m still sore and swollen and very bruised (though arnica is helping a LOT—thanks to everyone who suggested that!), but suddenly that stupid splint I’m wearing seemed worse than the surgery.
I was advised to “talk about it with the physical therapist” (who I won’t see again until Wednesday), but to “feel free to move around more and get those fingers working.” It’s like a whole new world opened up. I… washed dishes! HAPPILY! (I know, it’s weird. Washing dishes never makes me happy, unless I’m using my previously useless hand, apparently.) I… took a shower with a fully naked hand and was able to shave my armpits without major contortionism! (You’re welcome for sharing that visual.) I AM TYPING WITH TWO HANDS. Granted, I still have to get the okay from the PT to ditch the splint permanently (or maybe to get it cut down so that it will protect my hand without rendering my wrist and fingers inoperable), but for short stints at home when I feel reasonably certain an anvil isn’t going to land on my hand or whatever, I feel remarkably whole again. Hooray!
I was trying to describe to a friend the restrictions I’m experiencing due to the affected three fingers still not working quite as well as they used to, and the best I could come up with was “Half my hand appears to still be slightly drunk.” So there you go. I predict another few weeks at PT to retrain the fingers in question until they can reach my palm again, but still. I’m feeling pretty lucky, all things considered.
Related to all things Hand Massacre: Saturday night was the first night since this all began that I went to bed without benefit of heavy-duty painkillers. I could not fall asleep. I could not stay asleep. Other drug-related side effects aside, that really sucked. I’m pleased to report I slept like the dead last night with no drugs and no issues, so I seem to have broken the habit. Nonetheless, I was a little taken aback to discover how quickly my body apparently adapted to stupidity and sleepiness. Whoa.
Otto declared this weekend one of those Oh My God The House Is A Mess I Can’t Stand It weekends, and set about doing all sorts of domestic tasks while I sat on the couch and cheered him on. Eventually I felt guilty and joined in the fun, and lemme tell you, there is no feeling quite as heady as an organized cabinet of plastic food storage containers (vs. a cabinet where you open the door and a shower of Tupperware hits you in the face). My husband organized the CRAP out of that thing. What a guy!
For an encore, he washed down the walls in his bathroom. (Our shower is in there, and the room is shaped in such a way that even the exhaust fan cannot clear away enough steam to keep the walls from periodically getting kind of mildewy. It’s gross.) I was ready to throw him to the floor right then and there, BUT THEN he also hung up a new shower curtain liner and bought a new, not-rusty (like the old one) shower caddy. Fancy new bathroom! SWOOOOOON!
And then he changed the air filters in the HVAC and organized a whole bunch of other stuff, too. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Otto is a MUCH better wife than I am.
Me, I cooked some stuff. And did some laundry. And sat on the couch a bunch. I’m helpful like that.
Monkey is recovering from The Cold That Won’t Quit, and he is perfectly fine except he sounds like a 3-pack-a-day smoker. Otto and I haven’t tired of telling him he should stop smoking, even though he rolls his eyes at us (practicing for his upcoming teenagerhood) whenever we do.
At one point during Laundrypalooza I was up in Monkey’s room putting clean sheets on his bed and helping him put clothes away, and I found a pair of Chickie’s skinny jeans in his drawer.
[Sidebar: The packing involved to get Chickie ready for her move was, shall we say, EXTENSIVE. Her particular manifestation of anxiety required a level of organization that was, I thought, foolproof. But about a week ago she called me in a panic over the missing pair of jeans, and I assured her they must’ve made it up there because they weren’t HERE and how could the One True Jeans have gone missing? It was a mystery, right up until it wasn’t.]
So there were Chickadee’s missing jeans, hooray! And then this:
Me: These are your sister’s missing jeans. What are they doing in your drawer?
Monkey: I dunno.
Me: They must’ve been in with your laundry, somehow.
Monkey: Probably.
Me: But didn’t you notice they weren’t yours?
Monkey: Why would I? I had a stack of jeans, I figured they were mine and I put them away. *coughing fit*
As my son coughed, instead of being a solicitous mother, offering to get him some water or something, I laughed until I cried, imagining him working his way down to the last jeans in the drawer, donning his sister’s skin-tight skinnies, and then shuffling downstairs, coughing away. Maybe you had to be there (you know, in my head), but nothing could’ve been funnier at the time. Emo Monkey, ready to rock. Heh.
I have to go out and do a bunch of stuff today, so I guess I’ll have to go put my splint back on. You know, in case a piano falls from the sky, or something.
Life-threatening Hurricane sounds like a hard rock band, 1, 2, the mental image of “these jeans fit funny but they’re in my drawer so they’re mine and I will wear them” has me giggling at my desk. 3, I am glad you can wiggle your fingers/hand around again and I hope PT gets you back full mobility and 4: I love these posts like this one.
My husband is definitely the better wife in this family. I sit on the couch, with the remote, much more often than he does… He has chores, lists of chores. I do what needs to be done when, and if, it needs to be done. I comment frequently that he is pro-actionary where I am re-actionary… Works well for us, here at home and in our respective careers. He’s in sales, I’m in childcare… I did, however, rearrange the furniture this weekend, all by myself. We now have a cozier, more intimate space in the family room, as opposed to the open summer plan. So there is that… :-)
Hey! What are you doing in my Tupperware cabinet?!!! hahahahahaha I was so proud when my kids perfected the “Toss and Slam” method used exclusively when putting Tupperware away!
Yesterday it was “this yard is a mess and I can’t stand it any more” around these parts, so I can relate. And today is cleaning day. Joy.
So, will you be sending Chickadee a care package to go along with those jeans?
Thank you for a non hurricane post. I am in NC stressing about my house in NY. I’ll be lucky if I get there to clean up on Wednesday. All the storm coverage just makes me feel worse, so…. Thank you! Hope the hand feels normal soon. Hope Monkey’s cold passes. Hope the hurricane is just an adventure for Chickie!
Positive outcome from hurricane Sandy:
Mir, assessing the remaining weeks in 2012, has now neatly organized file folders containing emergency plans (with shopping lists, maps, and organizational charts for post-apocalypse government posts) for the following: earthquakes (with subsection for tsunamis), global epidemics, state-wide forest fires and invasions involving a) insects, b) mutant creatures or c) formerly mythological beasts/gods/aliens.
So my brother, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year, dropped in Friday and also declared my house as OMG I CAN’t TAKE THIS, and began cleaning it for me much like Otto. My brother is a damned good wife to his fiancee, and to me, it turns out. Men like that are the salt of the friggin’ earth.
The skinny jeans in Monkey’s drawer reminds me of last summer son 2’s (then age 2) full length pants ended up in son 1’s (then 8) drawer, and he wore them (because he’s so stinking thin) – the look was that of a boy in manpri’s, and we LAUGHED soooooo hard! Glad the mystery is solved.
Being able to use all your fingers is no small thing…and neither is an organized Tupperware cabinet. A weekend where life feels normal is priceless ~
A couple of weeks ago at 7am, I pulled the blue polo top out of my closet, put it on, and went to work. When I woke up about 9:30, I realized it was my 12 year old daughter’s. For the rest of the day, I threatened my office that I was going to take off my scrub jacket. Funny how nobody called my bluff.
I live just south of Boston. Everything is closed. We are supposed to close on our new house on Wed. and move in on Thurs. I prefer to read this post than think about the fact that our movers just postponed, the mortgage company in in CT, which is closed, and I really need to find a notary, but MA is closed too. Oh, and my special needs son is FREAKING OUT. yay.
Thanks for the distraction. :P
My favorite part of this is that there are some genuine happy moments, so yay!!! If it’s Tupperware drawers, a child with the ague, and washing dishes that does it, so be it.
No photo of the organized cabinet of plastic stuffs? How can we believe it if we can’t see it? Note to self: need new HVAC filter… and/or wife.
This weekend, while my daughter was spending the weekend with her father, my husband and I did ALL THE THINGS around the house that we have been putting off for so long. Having had a challenging time lately, (though you are definitely The Master), it was so nice to enjoy the normal and each other. It’s the little, tupperware cleaning moments that make me feel content and happy and like things are finally making sense. I hope your daughter stays safe.
Oh, and forgot to tell you that my kids have determined both my Superhero Power and Name. I am. . .The Funspoiler!
Taking a bow…my smart alecky mouth made it to Woulda Coulda Shoulda!
My boyfriend is a better wife than I am, too. :) When he comes over, I come home from work and the dishes are done and there are flowers on the table. He asked what ring size I am this weekend, speaking of hurricane distractions.
Last weekend I did all the “get ready for winter” outside stuff. Made me feel organized and responsible. :)
The ex-husband, Captain Oblivious, once wore a pair of my jeans to work. He was on his way out the door when I realized it. I was following him out the door, saying, “Hey wait! Those are MINE!” and he was replying, “Uhhh… I can’t change! I”m late!!”
Yes, I’m taller than average. But women’s jeans generally fit a little… differently… than men’s. Sheesh.
Reason #957 to be Team Otto.
Seriously, we should have shirts made.
Someone at work got hit by a heavy branch falling from a tree the other day – I guess the guy doing the trimming wasn’t being careful or something – and he is now in a sling, although nothing broken. Freaky accidents must be going around. Glad your hand is healing well!
I can’t believe you’re taunting the gods of indoor hand-anvils like that.
I can’t even…I can’t comprehend…the Tupperware drawer that doesn’t have to be opened slowly with one hand bracing the opening to keep contents from spilling out? DOES NOT COMPUTE.
My 9 yr old refuses to believe she is unable to fit her 3 yr old brother’s clothing. That she has attempted more than once is just as unfathomable as a clean Tupperware drawer (or unrusty shower caddy. These words make no sense to me).
Here’s to purpley (and screwed together) fingers returning to, um, normal?
How is Chickadee? Did the ex lay in enough supplies? Do they have power?
They’re fine—never even lost power! :)